


Wild Wolf

by brandedwithfire



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 13:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brandedwithfire/pseuds/brandedwithfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saxa would go to the gods branded proudly with the blood of Roman’s. She was wild and fearless in this life and would be so in the next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wild Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> As always I want to thank gaygreekgladiator for your encouragement, support and guidance <3

She had died as she had lived. Fighting like a wolf defending her own. Teeth bared, blades drawn, a guttural growl rumbling through her body as she lunged for the final time. It had taken countless Roman soldiers to draw Saxa to her end. She would not fall without true battle and that is what she had given them. One after another they had fallen, crimson blood splattered across their armour, sprays across her bare flesh, mattered in her hair. She was fierce and wild, even in her magnificent end. Never once had she cowered away, never once had she run in fear. Despite being outnumbered, despite the knowledge that this was one battle she could not win, Saxa had never turned away. She had held her head high, set her jaw and lunged like a wild wolf. 

They had taken her back to their base, carried by her kin in Agron and Donar yet honoured by all. They had not washed her body or straightened her hair, all knew she would have come back from the dead and bitten any who had dared. She would go to the gods branded proudly with the blood of Roman’s. She was wild and fearless in this life and would be so in the next. 

She had been given a send-off as a true warrior, her funeral pyre rivalling only that of mighty Crixus, beloved general of Spartacus whom had fallen only months before. Now she would join him, pacing, watching, and waiting for the day her kin and family would be reunited. But if she had her way not until they were old and grey and took their last breaths in their beds as free men and women. 

The wood was stacked high and even higher the fires roared. Red and orange flames danced as though alive, wild and deadly just as Saxa had been. Fuelled by wood and wind they burned half the night, each rebel having a moment to reflect upon the warrior woman who had shattered half a Roman centuria on her own before being drawn to her end.

Agron would remember his kin in the clash of steel against steel in the midst of battle. A fierce, feral woman he and Spartacus had once freed from a slave ship. Yet even the bonds of slavery could not dull the fire that raged within Saxa. It had only driven her forward, more determined to fight, ever willing to protect and defend others that could not battle for themselves. She had been fierce from the start, wild and untameable, and at times Agron had wondered if she had left her mother’s womb in such a manner, leaping forth to take on any that would defy her. She was a woman that no man could control and in the end none dared to. Agron had known her as one of his kin, a larger part of his family, and in turn part of his blood.

Nasir would remember her in the laughter of the fellow rebels whenever a joke was shared or memory retold. Wild and free, Saxa’s laughter would ride the wind, flowing through the camp in the dim light of the campfires. She was a woman familiar with the screams and moans of death and yet when she laughed it was like nothing Nasir had ever known, free and beautiful just as she was. Sometimes he would hear Agron speak, joke shared with Lugo and both would laugh and somewhere in the distance, far away yet there on the wind, Saxa’s laugh would rumble. 

Naevia would remember Saxa every time she trained, techniques learned from the fervent German woman from a land so far away. Every bump she took, every lunge she made or twist she turned Saxa would be there talking her through each move. She had been a skilful warrior, a fierce fighter, feral in movements and her actions were deadly and accurate. She was a woman that saw equals in all, no matter their sex or status; she was beneath no one yet held respect for many. It was an ideal that Naevia herself believed and the two had bonded over shared determination to be dominated by no man. They were warriors, equal to all. 

Spartacus would remember Saxa every time he heard Agron or Donar or the other German’s talk. Her accent thick and heavy, falling from her tongue as she cursed and berated strategies which favoured secrecy and delay. Her preference was attack, fierce and bloody, sending Romans to their graves. Always ready to argue, foul words upon her lips as she cursed and laughed and spoke with such vigour that any would be convinced of her idea. It was her voice that Spartacus would be reminded off and her voice in his ear that would bring smile to his lip when he spoke of strategies with the others. 

Donar’s memories would be full of playful remarks and teasing words, always throwing taunt in his direction at supposed lack of skill. Although Saxa battled with two blades she would wield an axe almost as well and at times could even put Donar and his talents to shame. Quick she was with a remark on his talents and a promise to teach him better one day. Donar would still wait for that day to come. 

But it was Gannicus who would remember her most of all. The only man who had dared and battled, fought and charmed his way through outer warrior to find inner goddess. Golden and beautiful, wild and free in her passion, letting it flow through her veins and spill through her body. He would remember Saxa in the beat of his heart in battle, the rush of blood that coursed through his veins as he faced death straight in the face. It would always be her. The golden haired wolf whom rivalled all men and bettered many of them. 

Saxa may have fallen, the rush of wind taking her to Valhalla, but she would never be forgotten. And as the embers of her great funeral pyre died, each would remember the golden haired wild wolf in their own, unique way.


End file.
